


Hold Still

by autoschediastic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Nude Modeling, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You drawin' me again?” Bucky asks, making Steve startle and curse as lead bites into paper. When he glances up, Bucky's gaze is on his in the mirror. “That'd be yes.”</p><p>“A good model's expensive, Buck.” Quickly, Steve captures the cocksure jut of Bucky's hip. It matches the smile crooking the corner of his mouth. “Gotta take advantage.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Still

It's been too damn hot to breathe going on a week now. Steve's shirt sits in a crumpled pile at the other end of the tiny sofa, his suspenders swinging loose around his hips. The high afternoon sun caught in all those creases and folds made for a decent warm up sketch, but still-life never did hold his attention long.

Across the room, Bucky stands naked in front of the cracked mirror propped up on the dresser, the tinny clank of razor against water basin loud in the heavy stillness. His bare back glistens in the sunlight. A trickle from his wet hair drips down the smooth stretch of his neck. Steve's pencil traces the same path.

“You drawin' me again?” Bucky asks, making Steve startle and curse as lead bites into paper. When he glances up, Bucky's gaze is on his in the mirror. “That'd be yes.”

“A good model's expensive, Buck.” Quickly, Steve captures the cocksure jut of Bucky's hip. It matches the smile crooking the corner of his mouth. “Gotta take advantage.”

“Now see, there's a strategy you gotta try pulling on a dame.” Bucky lifts the razor to his throat and clears a swath through the foam. It's as clean a shave as he's gonna get outside a barber's shop, but his beard grows in darker than his hair and leaves him with a perpetual shadow. On most fellas, it'd look real bad. Lazy. “If you wanna take advantage of me, tell me again how handsome I am.”

Steve snorts. “Don't think you need me for that.”

“I like hearing you say it.” Bucky smirks as he deftly sweeps the razor along his jawline, then takes care of the small fussy places around his nose and mouth with a few quick flicks. Steve rubs at his own jaw while he commits the broad span of Bucky's shoulders to paper. He shaved near two days ago and there's barely a prickle against his fingertips.

“You get a new job yet?” Bucky asks, bending low to rinse his face. Water streams down his arms, highlighting the smooth curvature of textbook-perfect muscle before pattering onto the bare wood floor. Bucky's filled out plenty since he moved on-base, all his lean wiry strength turned to solid build. When he comes up, the sunlight glints off the droplets caught in his chest hair. “I hear Argosy's lookin'.”

While he's still in the light, Steve quickly finishes up his legs. Bucky's always had good strong thighs. Carried him and Steve both out of more than one kind of trouble.

Bucky nabs the threadbare towel dangling off a peg and pats his face dry, then leans close to the mirror to run a hand over his throat, checking his shave. “Steve,” he prompts.

“Covers pay decent,” Steve says, shading in the small divots right at the base of Bucky's spine. All his best work is in pencil, and he's not half-bad with a good charcoal either. Black and white's an easy medium. “Paint's expensive.”

Bucky turns and leans against the warped dresser, heel of one hand propped on the edge. He's all long lines, smooth angles, dusky hair. “Stay right there,” Steve tells him, and flips to a fresh page. Pencil to paper, he sketches the quickest suggestion of a body to frame the soft slump of Bucky's cock. Without a professor's critical eye or the rough cartoon humour of a bluesie guiding his hand, he's free to pay as much or as little mind to the details as he likes. He's shading in the dark trail of hair that starts about an inch above Bucky's bellybutton when Bucky laughs. Steve points a finger at him. “Don't move.”

“Only if you promise I get to keep this one.”

“Buck,” Steve says, and tilts his paper a little to get the angle right, “what d'you need a drawing for? All you gotta do is look down.” From an aesthetic standpoint, he's always liked the hang of Bucky's balls. Not so big as some fellas, not so high up as to have to go lookin' for 'em. Just the right amount of hair, too.

The shadows change slightly as Bucky folds his arms. “What d'you need _another_ one for?”

“Why'd you do that? Put your arms back down.”

“Especially,” Bucky drawls, leaning forward to put some stress on it, “when I'm standing right here?”

“I like it.” Steve looks up from his paper, eyebrow raised, until Bucky settles back into place. “You do too, or I wouldn't always have to rush to finish.”

Bucky laughs. “Can't help it. Not when you're lookin' at me like that.” His legs shift a fraction wider, his hand sliding across his hip, fingers splayed. “You gonna draw this next one too?”

“For starters, sure,” Steve tosses off easy, but his hand's gone still. Bucky's more than a little hard, and so is he. The pressure of his cobbled-together sketchpad on his crotch is as bad a tease as Bucky. “You tell me when you're ready.”

“Oh, I gotta pose.” Grinning, Bucky shifts his stance again, managing to settle his body into an angle that's borderline aggressive and still somehow mostly a suggestion. More's the pity that Steve doesn't have the skill to translate that to paper. Still, he puts his pencil to work again. No sense in not trying.

Steve glances from paper to flesh and back, tenacious about getting the curve of Bucky's pectoral muscles right so he can fill in a dusting of chest hair, then the tight, small peaks of Bucky's nipples. Like the pencil is a part of him, he can almost feel them beneath his fingers. So strong is the memory of what it's like when they go hard against the flat of his tongue as he licks at Bucky's chest, the way Bucky's hands clench tight in his hair to keep him there sucking kisses into salt-sweet skin, that his mouth goes wet. The sofa creaks with his restless shifting.

“Saved by the bell,” Bucky breathes, and shoves off dresser.

“I didn't hear anything,” Steve says, pencil flying before he loses entirely the exact tilt of Bucky's chin. He tries for the relaxed drape of Bucky's arm but it's gone, and by the time Bucky's shadow falls cool over him he's drawing the spread of Bucky's fingers from memory. “Damn it, Buck. I was almost done.”

“I'm done,” Bucky says, wedging his knee between Steve's thigh and the sofa's arm. “Laid right out.” He leans in close, callused fingers as soft on Steve's throat as his breath on Steve's lips. “Got a total knockout over here.”

Steve says, “Uh huh,” as flat as the look Bucky's too close to catch. Bucky's a charmer through and through and able to shovel shit like he was born on a farm. The way he kisses though, the easy slip of his tongue and the tight grip he's got on Steve's shoulder, that's no bull. Neither is his shaky breath when Steve slumps deeper into the worn cushions, or the noise he makes when he catches the sound of Steve's zipper peeling apart. Bucky'll cheat a man at cards without a hint of remorse, lie straight to Steve's face if he thinks Steve doesn't need to know, but with this he's never been anything but dead-honest.

Between kisses and slow tugs at his own cock, no rush with the afternoon stretched out long in front of them, Steve murmurs, “Kinda figured you'd be at this the second you got in the door.”

“Wasn't so sure you'd let me fuck you up against it.” The sofa gives a mighty groan as Bucky's weight settles on it, knees spread wide over Steve's lap and jammed into the back cushions. “Put your goddamn hands on me already.”

“Yessir, Private Barnes,” Steve says, grinning as he thumbs at Bucky's nipples, Bucky already hissing quiet cusses. Bucky's skin is cooler in places from spilled water and heating up fast as Steve's palms sweep low. The old bit of softness that lingered around Bucky's belly is gone, trained flat by before-dawn drills and army rations and not a drink to be had. “There's a quarter roast cooling in the icebox,” he says, stroking higher up again, following the contours of Bucky's body as if he were drawing still. “Got it special off Henderson.”

Bucky groans softly. “Better'n a dream.” He watches Steve's hands on his body, biting at his lip. Fluid gathers heavy at the head of his cock. “I lifted that flask off the joker in barrack three.”

Steve's laughing as he gives Bucky's nipple a rough pinch, making Bucky shiver and the droplet spill over, another quickly swelling up to take its place as it drips down the shaft. “'Course you did,” he says, a big ol' grin plastered on his face right before Bucky dives in for a deeper, harder kiss than the other. He ends up blocking Steve's view, but Steve doesn't need to see to know a few more little flicks followed by a rub with the heel of his hand will slick up the length of Bucky's cock the same as if he sucked it wet.

Bucky's hands move restlessly over Steve's bare arms, from his chest and belly and between his legs, not too careful lifting Steve's balls free but leaving his palm cupped gently beneath them, thumb rubbing delicate skin. “God's honest truth,” he says as he wraps his other hand around Steve's cock, his strokes firm and easy with foreskin barely sliding past the head, “I've been missing you.”

“They make you do your own laundry, huh?” Steve's chest is tight, his breaths a bit strained, but he feels good straight down to his toes. He rubs sweat off his upper lip onto his shoulder and lets his head fall back. Bucky bends nearly double to get at his throat.

Bucky mumbles, “Even gotta fold my damn drawers,” less like a complaint than he might if Steve's fingers weren't between his legs rubbing his own slick around his asshole. The muscles in his thighs jump at the smallest bit of pressure. When Bucky mouths his way up over Steve's jaw to start in on kissing him again, Steve leaves off there and runs his hands up Bucky's back instead, tracing by touch all the new shapes his pencil found.

“I'm not gettin' up,” says Bucky, almost like he means it. He reaches back to grab Steve's hand and shove it south again. “Got lotsa time.” His voice drops low and Steve's aching worse already. “Use those pretty fingers of yours to get me loose, I'll open right up for you, promise.” He goes up on his knees, his cock bumping Steve's chest and Steve and the sofa both giving up a groan. “I'm an honest military man now, you gotta believe me.”

Steve just manages, “It's in the dresser,” before he cranes his neck out to suck Bucky's cockhead straight into his mouth. Flavour explodes on his tongue, fresh clean skin beneath a lip-tingling layer of salt. Bucky's hands thump down on the back of the sofa, his balance wavering and not much steadied by Steve's hands fanned out over his ass to draw him closer. Steve's cheeks pull tight to his teeth, the taste fading then growing strong again as he tongues his way around the head, pushing beneath foreskin and rubbing firmly against the slit. What makes Steve want to squirm out of his skin it tickles so bad makes Bucky's hips jerk eagerly. When he swallows and the pressure breaks, Bucky gulps down two quick breaths and fucks a little. Steve looks up, their gazes catching. Bucky's grin is wild.

“Just for a sec,” Bucky says rough and happy, and tries his luck going a fraction deeper. Steve's nostrils flare as he drags in air. “You look so damn dirty, Steve. And you're so fucking hard, too. Bet you can't wait to put it in me. You thinkin' 'bout it?”

Steve drags himself off Bucky's dick with a gasp. “I'm thinkin' how nice your hand is gonna feel when you get back.”

“Fuck,” Bucky spits, then, “fine,” as he stumbles to his feet. He's walking more than a little funny on his way to the dresser but he makes it double time. He lets the cover of the Vaseline drop carelessly to the floor. Once he's straddling Steve's lap again, he greases up his hand. “You're a tougher shit than my CO.”

Steve doesn't think before, “Do me a favour and tell that to somebody down at the recruiting station, would ya?” comes spilling out of his mouth.

“Hell no.” Bucky slaps his hand to Steve's cock and gives it a few quick, purposeful tugs. The sofa gives up another warning creak as he gets his feet under him. He grips the back again for balance as he crouches over Steve's cock, knees spread obscenely wide, balls hanging heavy and his dick tucked up tight against his belly. “Only got two hands here.”

“God almighty,” Steve mutters, close to a prayer in truth. He's slumped so low his chin's digging into his breastbone. He drags in as much air as his lungs will take and holds his cock steady. Bucky's balls bump the head a couple times and Steve's damn near biting through his own cheek by the time they've got the angle right. A little late in the game he slides his fingers further up the shaft to help, so he's right there to feel Bucky's body take it not just from the inside but the outside too. He breathes carefully as he rubs his fingertips over his own cock and the stretch of Bucky's asshole around it, his face burning worse than if he was standing square in the sun.

Bucky grins as he lifts up a bit, sinks back down again to work Steve in deeper. Then again, his mouth falling open as he drags in air, Steve's whole body locked up in pleasure-shock until he's sitting right down on Steve's lap. He's breathing hard and grinning again though he's got his bottom lip caught so hard between his teeth it's a sharp bloodless white. “Admit it, pal,” he says, his voice rough like a whole night out at the bar. “You missed me too.”

“'Cause I should be out there with you,” Steve says, but most of it's lost in a moan as Bucky lifts up. Steve's hands slap to Bucky's sides as his hips snap up.

Bucky jolts forward, quick to right himself before Steve gets squished too badly into the couch. “Yeah, you should,” he says, but then, “like that,” so Steve's not sure if it's agreement or a request or both. There's only one of the two he's in a position to do anything about. The full-throated noise Bucky makes as Steve starts to fuck him in long, lazy thrusts that go deep and linger are more than worth the ache low in his back. Even more worth it is the look on Bucky's face. Steve's spent so damn much of life not being able to just _do_ the things everybody else takes for granted, but this he's got.

They've got a rhythm too that matches the heavy, dragging heat of the afternoon. Steve lets his hands wander again. One he presses to the tight bunch of Bucky's thigh, feeling muscle flex and release beneath it. The other goes briefly to Bucky's cock, then between his legs again, lingering on all the soft private parts of him just because Steve can. When their gazes meet again with only the wet intimate noises of fucking as a backdrop, Steve sucks in air. He _has_ been missing all of this something fierce, and Buck damn well knows it.

Bucky quirks up the corner of his mouth and says, “Roast beef sandwiches.”

Steve's laugh is more a gasp as Bucky screws down. “Butter'n me up so I'll butter your bread.”

“More like hopin',” Bucky starts, eyes snapping shut and mouth falling slack as Steve bottoms out again. Bucky's knees hit the back cushions again, his lower body moving slow in a slick, dirty wave. Steve's ass is hanging off the couch and his thighs are burning. He works up the spit to wet his dry tongue but can't find the words to prod Bucky off him onto the floor. Can't take his eyes off the strong flex of Bucky's body. Off the way that, when he finds enough strength of his own, the force of his thrusts ripple through that same body. Somewhere he digs up more, supporting Bucky's weight with thin, bony arms and fucking as hard as his own useless body wants but can hardly ever manage. Air wheezes in his lungs, the few scraps getting through the clench of his teeth barely enough to keep going. The burn of pleasure overtakes everything except the low grate of Bucky begging and goading by turns, whichever he thinks will get the job done.

Steve's done, alright. He body seizes up and he clamps down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. He comes almost too fast and hard to really register it beyond the sweet harsh relief, which is his own damn fault for getting carried away, but it mellows out just as quickly to syrup-thick blissful echoes. Bucky lifts up too soon, drives a grunt straight out of him. His hands spasm on Bucky's hips as Bucky settles back down and clenches up inside, squeezing his cock tight. It feels too good. Breath leaks out of him in a shallow, thready noise.

When Bucky moves again, tries to fuck, light explodes behind Steve's eyelids. His legs are quaking and it's a miracle Bucky hasn't noticed. When he pries his eyelids open, he knows why: Bucky's got a desperate hand on his cock, his head tipped right back and eyes fixed on the ceiling not seeing a damn thing. His hips move, restless and wanting.

“Hang on,” Steve groans, sure it'll fall on deaf ears. But Bucky grunts and lifts up a little more when Steve worms a hand between them, thumb hooking on his cock to drag it free before Bucky goes and kills him. Bucky groans too loudly, then somehow louder still when Steve's fingers press up into him. By a hair Steve manages not to echo him; he's hot and slick inside, a tight, greedy clench that sets Steve's skin to burning all over again with how quick he is to start up fucking again like they'd never stopped.

Steve's back aches, and his neck, and soon his wrist too. Bucky's hand slows when he finds his rhythm, satisfied for the barest of moments before he huffs a groan and hunches forward, movements turning fitful. A crook of Steve's fingers makes the next groan grateful. Steve fingers him slower than he tried to go, easy and deep because he's taken it hard enough already to have the ache he'd been craving. And maybe Steve likes to watch the slow-burn build before he comes like he didn't think he'd go off already, like he thought he could just hang around up there until he could wrangle another go. His body tightens up inside and out, his mouth open to no sound, the quietest he's been all afternoon as it rocks through him. Steve's not so sure beautiful is the right word for this, or for how Bucky slumps over him after, flushed beneath slick sweat and come dripping down the fist still loosely wrapped around Bucky's cock. He wants to draw it like it is anyway.

Bucky drags in a deep breath. “More like hoping you will,” he rasps, then laughs and clears his throat. It doesn't help much. “'Cause I ain't planning on walking after this, that's what I was gonna say.”

“Gonna have to get up sometime,” Steve points out, only a little less wheezy. He rubs at his thigh where it's gone to pins and needles.

“What, you tired a'drawing me already?” On a groan, Bucky levers himself up. He shivers as Steve's fingers slip free, wetting his lips and chuckling again quietly as he tips sideways onto the couch. He curls an arm beneath his head, his legs on Steve's lap and his ass hanging off the cushions. The sun glints off the Vaseline smeared shamelessly all up the inside of his thighs. “Wouldn't think you'd wanna miss this one.”

Steve spots his sketchpad spilled on the floor, his pencil caught in a warp in the floorboards about a foot away. He's up and stumbling for it before he thinks it through, tripping on the trailing legs of his pants. “Should be cleanin' up,” he says even as he settles down. He smoothes the wrinkles out of a fresh page and wishes he at least had time to sharpen his pencil, but Bucky's idea or not, he's only gonna hold still for so long. Decadent's a good word for the way he looks up there. Smug for sure and certain with the way he's smiling over his shoulder. As lax and satisfied as an alley cat in the sun.

Sketching faster than he'd like, Steve asks, “You gonna want to keep this one too?”

“See how it turns out,” says Bucky, his eyes heavy and smile softening just at one corner.

Steve smirks down at his paper and keeps drawing. After a minute or two of quiet, he spares a glance at Bucky's face. Bucky's eyes are closed, his breathing soft, near sleep. Steve slows his hand.

They've got some time yet.


End file.
